"It may be there is hot work in front of us," said Quarles, "and the first move is yours. No. 6 Hambledon Road is the house we want, and you will go to the front door and ask to see the master. I fancy a maidservant will answer the door, but I am not sure. Whoever it is, prevent an alarm being given, and get into the house with the two men who will accompany you. That done, get the door into the garden open, and I will join you with the rest of the men. If there is any attempt at escape it will be by the garden, and we shall be waiting for them. Utter silence; that is imperative. Of course, they may be prepared, but probably they are not. If it is necessary to shoot, you must, and we will force our way in as best we can and take our part in the struggle. Come along, let's get the men together." A few minutes later I had knocked at the door of No. 6; an elderly woman-servant came to the door, and I saw suspicion in her eyes. Even as I inquired for her master I seized her, and so successfully that she hadn't an opportunity to utter a sound. I asked her no question, certain that she would mislead me, and, leaving one of the men with her in the hall, I hastened with the other two to the door leading into the garden, fully expecting to be attacked. We saw no one, heard no movement; either the professor had made a mistake or the conspirators considered themselves secure. Quarles and the men came in like shadows, so silent were they, and it was evident that the professor had given his companions instructions, for two of them quickly went toward the hall. "The cellars, Wigan," he whispered. "I think it will be the cellars." The house was a basement one, similar to No. 14, and from a stone passage we found a door giving on to a dozen steep steps. It was pitch dark below. "Don't show a light," said Quarles as he pushed me gently to go forward. I didn't know it at the time, but only one man came down with us. At the foot of the stairs a passage ran to right and left, and to the left, which was toward the garden side of the house, a thin line of light showed below a door. On tiptoe, ready for emergencies, and hardly daring to breathe, we approached it, and with one accord the professor and I put our ears to the door. For a while no sound came, then a paper rustled and a foot scraped lightly on the stone floor. We had chanced to arrive during a pause in the conversation, for presently a voice, pitched low and monotonous in its tone, went on with an argument: "I can find no excuse for you in that, Bertha Capracci. It is not admitted that your husband found death at the hands of his associates, but, were it so, it is no more than just. There are papers here proving beyond all doubt that he betrayed his friends." "I have already said that is untrue," came the answer in a woman's voice. "There is no doubt," said another man. "None," said a third. Three men at least were sitting in judgment upon this woman, and it was evident they were not English.